Southern Decadence
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: France/America/Canada: de-anon from the kink meme, filled for both prompts of Cajun!Alfred and Acadian/Quebecois!Matthew and France(or Canada perhaps?)/Cajun!America. Lots of gratuitous French, Cajun and Francophone culture of New Orleans, including food, music, dancing and the supernatural. Happy birthday July babes!
1. Southern Decadence

**Southern Decadence**

_[There are a lot of problematic characterizations and situations in this one, written so early in the days of Hetalia fandom, but everything was written for a reason. Years later, the reasons weren't as funny as I had thought at the time, but this was a labor of love, and I still enjoy it enough to share it. Lots of little Easter eggs for the Louisianans and Texans among us. Now have some France/America/Canada.]_

* * *

><p>The first thing France always noticed about Louisiana was that it was hot. Hot and wet. Hot, wet and dirty. Normally a very pleasurable combination of adjectives to describe something, in his mind, but not so much in this situation.<p>

He rolled an ice cold bottle of beer across his forehead once or twice, seeking temporary relief from an unusually warm day in New Orleans. It was so humid he could not actually feel any sweat, only condensation forming rivulets on his skin, dampening strands of hair that had escaped the hastily tied-back knot and which now clung to his neck and forehead. How did America survive such unbearable weather? Moreover, how could he enjoy it so? There must be something wrong with the young nation, and France suspected, not for the first time, that England had dropped America on his head as an infant more times that he would admit.

Which was not to say that New Orleans lacked charm, no. Certainly a part of his heart remained here, in this city that he helped establish, even after the territory itself changed hands so many times throughout its turbulent history. New Orleans, or N'awlins as American insisted on calling it in his appalling back-country drawl, had a spirited wildness that lured France back every now and then, a siren song masquerading in the rhythms of jazz.

Speaking of, France turned his attention away from the beer – which tasted more like piss than anything else, yet he drained half of the bottle in one go and was now discreetly looking about for another - and he rested his gaze upon the not unpleasant but still unsettling sight of America in front of the stove, humming under his breath as he stirred and sautéed. It was strange - the nation, upon greeting France with an uncharacteristic kiss on the cheek, had insisted he relax and not worry about stuff like cooking because he could totally take care of it himself. France, a little surprised by the greeting, had conceded to his host's wishes - against all common sense, he might add. And that was how he ended up sitting at the breakfast table, sweating most unsexily in a kitchen made even hotter by the burners apparently on full blast… as well as the fine view of America's backside in designer jeans.

France set the empty bottle down and stalked over to America, wrapping his arms around the other's waist and getting a noseful of aromatic Cajun-style cooking in the process.

"_Mon ange,_ I am getting bored..."

"_Espère!_ You can't rush a delicate process." America tried to wriggle out of France's embrace as the older nation planted a kiss on his tanned neck. "And if you keep distractin' me like that, we gonna get burned."

"But I am already burning. For you, of course," France murmured as he pressed his hips against the back of America's legs and let his fingers trail down the planes of the other's stomach.

"That ain't gonna make the gumbo cook any faster," America complained, but he did turn his head just enough to give France another peck on the cheek. With that, France decided he would bravely endure another three hours in the kitchen if in return, he could stay in the company of this America, all Creole charm and off-and-on Southern hospitality.

"Why don't you go upstairs and take a nap, huh? You'll need to save your energy for tonight, old man."

"Oh? What do you have planned, hmm?" France asked, a wicked edge to his voice, and pointedly ignoring the jab at his age for now. There would be plenty of opportunity to show off his superior European stamina later, he knew.

"I'm not tellin', you dirty bastard! But trust me, it will be worth it." Grinning, America leaned over to give France a proper kiss, slipping his tongue in for a moment and biting ever so lightly at the other nation's lip, a promise that was as teasing as it was arousing.

When they finally parted, France looked over at the stove and remarked, "The roux is about to burn, _cher_."

He left a flailing America to deal with the mess, and went upstairs with a sigh, reveling in the sudden coolness. Though his room was as far from America's as was possible in the cozy downtown apartment, France did not mind, for it commanded an unparalleled view of the Vieux Carre, the French Quarter, below. How unlike America, to pander to France's vanity so, but really, was there any other option? Of course not.

Peeling off his damp shirt and tossing it onto a chair, France laid down on cool cotton sheets, his eyelids already heavy from a long day of traipsing about the city, feeling quite soothed by the breeze of the ceiling fan. Resting his cheek on the pillow, he looked out the arched window, at elegant wrought iron balconies and plaster walls and trees draped with Spanish moss… Recalling the day he first arrived here, holding onto the hand of a small child sometimes Canada, sometimes America, sometimes both…

France sighed once more, out of twisted nostalgic pride for this marshy land that had welcomed and sheltered all three of them, this rebellious port city that England could not take, even in the height of his power. This place, their haven.

* * *

><p>Tonight, there were tall candles lighting the hall, a lively valse playing in the background, and France found himself dancing with a beautiful voodoo queen, her skin and hair golden brown like violins, the skulls at her waist clacking in time with her heels. A pirate lord passed by, feathers nodding in his hat, while masked dancers twirled gracefully in the ballroom. Outside of the mansion, ghosts and vampires laughed and flirted and lured hapless victims into the depths of the ebony river, where zombies and mermaids awaited to feast upon their flesh. He caught a glimpse of his glittering youthful reflection in a great antique gold mirror and wondered how he managed to purchase Armani glasses and an Ipod in the 1730s…<p>

"France, wake up." Now someone was shaking him by the shoulder, impatient… "_Lève-toi_,France!"

He blinked drowsily, the remnants of the dream flitting away into oblivion, and there was Canada at his bedside, looking down at him with a frown.

"Dinner's ready, eh."

With a lazy cat-like stretch, France got out of bed, debating on whether to put on the old shirt or something not stiff with sweat. He chose a slightly less damp new shirt and buttoned it up as they exited the room.

"Are you the surprise America has promised me, Canada?" he then asked, hands latching onto the other's shoulders as they approached the kitchen.

"Eurgh, I have no idea what you're talking about." Canada tried to walk faster, to no avail.

France chuckled to himself, anticipating the events of this evening even more than ever. "It has been too long since I last saw you. What brings you here?"

"You, duh. Isn't that occasion enough?"

"Ah…" He tilted his face upward to kiss his former colony's cheek in gratitude, but Canada surprised him by meeting his lips with his own, sweetly and gently.

"Fraaaaaance!" America yelled from somewhere in the kitchen, ruining a perfectly intimate moment with his fog-horn of a voice. "We're gonna eat outside! C'mon now, food's getting cold!"

France made a face. "But it is so hot here, how can food get cold?"

Rolling his eyes, Canada dragged France out the patio door, assuring him that it wasn't that hot after the sun has set.

True enough, it was humid, but not unbearably warm, with a light wind blowing in from the waterfront. Lanterns strung from magnolia trees lit the scene with a warm glow, and a feast fit for a king and his entire court spread out all over a large table.

After the initial chaos of making enough space for all of the dishes and drinks, they could finally begin supper. The brothers, whenever they were not demolishing the food, persistently offered France samples of their - to put it politely – "unique" regional cuisine. A spoonful of thick file gumbo, a crust of bread, a bit of succulent shrimp and catfish and frog and _cocodrie_ (did America catch it himself, one had to wonder), a variety of rice dishes, even a bite of the poutine Canada insisted on making whether or not the situation called for it. The smells heavenly, the tastes hearty and exotic and familiar all at once, and France thought he might have to revise his opinion of America's culinary skills, at least in regards to deep-frying and grilling anything that wouldn't run away.

"What… are these?" France asked warily, prodding at something round and golden brown and greasy with a fork.

"Umm… fried… stuff, I guess," Canada answered with a shrug.

"Stuff?"

"Good stuff," America clarified, spearing one of the objects and biting into it eagerly.

France pushed the plate of the fried things towards the younger nations, declining it for the sake of his arteries.

The fixed grin on his face, a result of concentrating on what the two were saying in their bastardized abuse of both French and English, soon turned into a real smile as Canada started serving drinks of an alcoholic nature. Every single one showcasing bourbon and rum and tequila and other spicy liquors that went down like a flash-fire on the tongue.

Well, France thought, perhaps now he could try to forget how many animals had died to feed them this night.

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><p>All throughout the meal, France did not fail to notice America meaningfully sucking the head of the crawdad for the meat inside, nor could he ignore Canada licking the powdered sugar off of a donut before taking a bite. They were clearly vying for his attention by the end, after they had satisfied the bottomless pits of their stomachs. It then became an effort to keep from laughing at their awkward attempts to court his favor - did he not invent this game to pass the time, centuries ago? But France graciously acknowledged them both, giving neither one an obvious advantage, until it became apparent that America and Canada were quite frustrated, glaring at each other coldly even as they murmured sweet nothings in drawn-out vowels and dropped syllables.<p>

After they cleared some of the plates off of the table, France sat back in his chair, sipping thoughtfully at the iced café au lait, with that Louisianan hint of chicory. He could still hear their youthful voices in the air, arguing good-naturedly about Gambit versus Wolverine, though they had moved out of sight and further behind the cover of a magnolia tree. Curious, France set his drink down and went to join them in whatever prank they were about to pull.

"_Hé_, France, look!"

"_Gardez ici_!"

America and Canada emerged from behind the tree, their hands cupped around something he could not discern. Breathless and somewhat inebriated, the brothers ran to his side, as gleeful as the young colonies they used to be. Then they opened up their hands at the same time, and fireflies streamed out from between their fingers, spiraling away into the night like tiny dancing stars.

France stared open-mouthed at the fireflies scattering off into the darkness, and he knew he must look like a silly grinning fool.

"_Merci, merci, mon frère_," the two of them whispered into his ears, and because he did not know what else to do, he laughed until his chest ached and tears ran down his face.

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><p>[This is what the Cajun-French dictionary told me, IDK.]<br>Espère - wait  
>Lève-toi - get up<br>cocodrie - alligator  
>Gardez ici - look here<p> 


	2. the Big Easy

Southern Decadence: the Big Easy

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><p>"…Excuse me?" France raised an eyebrow at Canada, as if to ask for a translation of this latest term.<p>

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth for a moment, Canada gave a long-suffering sigh. "It means 'go to sleep,' France."

"Ah, in that case, I agree." Perhaps it was a little early in the evening, but he felt the urge to get under the covers, even if he did not intend to actually sleep any time soon. "You know I would not mind tucking you two into bed again, like in the old days," he added, hardly bothering to keep the leer out of his voice.

America, who was handing the last dish to Canada to dry, laughed at that. "Actually, "_fais do-do_" means more like putting the little ones to sleep, so we adults can go dancin'."

"You, adults? And dancing?" France snorted, knowing that America and Canada took after England in this area for the worse. "Ugh, I would rather not traumatize my eyes, _mon chou."_

Not missing a beat, America retorted, "Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna sit around on my ass and complain about how bored I am."

Canada looked from America to France, obviously trying to hide a smile and failing, and France decided to save face, giving in with an affronted sniff.

"I suppose we might as well, seeing as at least one of us needs to work off the calories," he said, glancing at their (admittedly flawless) bodies and then snickering when America looked down at his stomach with a worried frown.

Close to an hour later, the three of them left the apartment, after a mild disagreement over who was going to use the shower first and then the consequent attempts to keep France from joining them in said shower. America had put on a stylish t-shirt, new-yet-vintage jeans and cowboy boots, while Canada, in a studied effort to look different, ended up looking almost exactly the same, much to his aggravation. Listening to him curse creatively in some Quebecois slang, America just laughed and plopped a fedora hat on his head, setting it at a smart angle. "There, now we look different!"

They turned to France, who had been watching them with a small smile on his lips.

"Gawd, France, why'd ya have to show us up like that?" America whined, after taking in France's supposedly casual outfit - long-sleeved white knit shirt, fashionably dark slim jeans, sharp Italian shoes, which, of course, cost more than both of their straight-from-Tar-get ensembles put together. "Even your gardening clothes make us look like rednecks."

France was reminded of the near-class differences that occasionally plagued the society here, that years of intermarriage could not erase. Making soothing noises, he told the sulking pair that they looked gorgeous, truly gorgeous, as they stepped out of the doorway into a night sparkling with lights and laughter.

* * *

><p>Eagerly, America led the way to Rue Bourbon, sometimes pointing out landmarks he thought important, sometimes walking in silence with a pained look on his face, as if he remembered something he did not want to recall. During those times, France reached out to hold one hand, Canada the other, and America did not flinch away.<p>

"Where are we going, exactly?" Canada asked, as they neared the noise and bustle of the night club district.

America brightened up instantly and made a sweeping motion with his free arm. "You're looking at the Big Easy, bro, where you can find a party every day of the year! And we're going to all the best places tonight!"

"Oooh, how about there? That place looks interesting," France pointed at a posh nightclub across the street with a scattering of well-dressed patrons lingering outside.

"Umm… no, not there." America did not even stop to look where the other nation was pointing, and simply hastened his pace, dragging the other two with him.

"And why not?" It seemed like France's type of venue, he deserved an explanation.

"Probably because it's a gay bar, with gays," Canada supplied helpfully.

France stared at America, who shook his head no, apparently still in denial despite all evidence clearly indicating otherwise.

Keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, America darted forward in an effort to avoid being ogled at by the patrons of the offending locale, while France looked over his shoulder, catching Canada's attention and mouthing, "Get him drunk, we're going back there."

They were kicked out of the next bar within fifteen minutes.

"Jesus Christ, France, why did you harass that woman?"

"I did no such thing! I just smiled at her, how is that sexual harassment?"

"Uhh… well…" To tell the truth, with France, anything he did could be construed as sexual harassment.

"I would also have you know that she tried to kick me in a very sensitive area. If anything, the security should have escorted her out, not me!"

The brothers exchanged identical looks of mortification, the kind that could be seen on the faces of adolescents in the company of their guardian figures anywhere in the world.

It was Canada who got them thrown out of the next high-class venue America suggested, after they were thanked, politely and several times, for not smoking inside the common area.

Eventually they finagled their way into another popular dance club that America swore would be totally fun. France could not quite hide his disgust at the choice of music being played through speakers, but what was he expecting? At least in the darkness, the twenty-something crowd seemed mostly attractive and sophisticated, in direct contrast to the ambiance.

America, who had somehow dodged the bouncer and was able to order fabulously colorful drinks for them all without getting carded, beamed at them both.

"C'mon, let's dance!"

France declined, saying he did not know how to dance to this type of music, but the younger nation did not look discouraged at all.

"Look, it's the Texas two-step, very easy. Only two steps."

To demonstrate, he grabbed Canada to show off the steps, but was foiled (probably on purpose) by his fellow nation trying to take the lead as well. They almost tripped over themselves in the ensuing tangle of feet, and France grinned.

"I think I will just watch you two first. Now, go enjoy yourselves."

The brothers shrugged and were almost immediately whisked away by two young women who had been eyeing them appreciatively from the dance floor.

France sighed watching them, so energetic and full of life, if perhaps lacking in culture. "Ah, to be young again."

He had just finished thinking that when he sensed someone occupy the empty space at his side.

"_Bonswoar, messieur_."

"_Bonsoir_…" France replied automatically, before he thought to wonder why this person knew to address him in French instead of English.

The grinning young man beside him was tall and lean, with the look of mixed blood in his features. But for the wild dark hair and eyes so pale blue they looked colorless, he exuded the same easy confidence one associated with America, and France found himself unable to look away from the startling gaze.

"Now why is a fella like you all by their lonesome, huh? That don't seem right," the boy drawled out, with a charming toss of his curls.

France smiled back, finishing the last of his drink and setting the glass down. "I can not say I mind the present company."

"Eh? For true?"

The boy laughed, warm and welcoming, placing an almost possessive hand on his arm, and France began to wonder just how long it had been since someone approached him in such a forward manner.

"C'mon, let's go talk somewhere more private."

If he had time to think about it, he might have suspected something then, but the stranger was already pulling him towards a darker corner of the club, away from the lights of the dance floor. Bemused, France followed after, weaving in through groups of young people entwined in each other's arms while a slower rock song started.

This stranger, who referred to himself as "Beau," seemed rather curious about his partner, but after not getting any straight answer to his questions, he contented himself with putting an arm about France's waist in a familiar manner.

"Are you sure you don't wanna dance?" he asked, nuzzling at the skin underneath the other's ear. France laughed and said no, although his eyes kept flicking back to the dance floor, searching for the other two within the crowd. If the boy noticed this, he did not seem to mind, only grinned wider.

"Well, I can think of something else we can do." Without any other prelude, Beau leaned in for a kiss and France's brain had to do some quick reshuffling to adjust to this suddenness.

Even though the boy knew how to use his tongue to his advantage, France suddenly noticed a strange taste, something closer to brackish bayou water and rotting cypress than should be human. Startled, France drew away as politely as he could, but his back was against the wall, and Beau had him neatly trapped between muscular arms.

"Let's go to your place, _m'cher_, c'mon… What d'you say?" Beau murmured into his ear, so sweet and seductive, hands now sliding southward with a definite purpose.

Things might have gotten worse (or better, depending on your point of view) but then Canada walking by casually body-checked the stranger with enough force to knock down half of a hockey team, all the while looking innocent of anything more than a slight bump on the elbow. The boy managed to stay on his feet, though he was not able to escape before America grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back roughly.

"You all right? Did he hurt you or something?" Canada muttered, quickly glancing over France, who tried to shoo him away.

"What is going on?" France asked, looking over at this mysterious Beau, who was now pointing at America and yelling something in a mish-mash of English and French and Spanish or native or African, he could not tell. The boy was clearly upset, practically frothing at the mouth, America not much less angry, and yet none of the club patrons seemed to notice the commotion. Finally, Beau stomped off, shouting, "You never pay attention to me, Alfred! I'll make ya regret it, I will!"

"Care to explain yourselves?" They had exited the club, now standing out on the sidewalk, France with his arms folded, while the other two nations looked anywhere but at his face. "Who is that young man? What is his… for lack of a better word, problem?"

"Oh, um, that's Louis Laveau, he's, y'know, a vampire," America said, barely audible.

"Yeah, kind of a _loup-garou_," Canada added just as softly.

France stared at them, feeling an unpleasant tickling sensation crawling up his spine, ending at the back of his neck. Several thoughts ran through his head in the span of a few milliseconds, culminating in the recollection that while neither Canada nor America believed in fairies, they sure as hell believed in undead monsters. But only one thought made its way to his vocal cords.

"Isn't that… contagious?"

"Whut?" America blinked, somewhat relieved that his other parent was not going to yell at him right away. "Why are you asking me? I mean, everyone knows that werewolves and vampires are Fren-"

Canada had kicked his brother's knee at this point.

"Friends! He means they're… friends. Right…"

America looked like he was about to disagree, but instead gave France a much too cheerful wink and said, "Well, you should be fine, as long as he didn't draw blood. You, uh, didn't invite Louie back to our place, did you?"

"_Non, non_." But that was close…

Although Canada's expression of pure unadulterated horror was not reassuring, America smiled as if nothing were wrong, and then undid the clasp of his pendant, handing the silver cross and chain to France.

"You might want to wear this, just to be safe, and umm… we'll stick together from now on, okay?"

Honestly, he was surprised England hadn't gone completely grey-haired from dealing with America. You did not have to be a mind-reader to know that they were not telling everything. France sighed, put the silver chain on, and hurried after the two former colonies, who seemed to be arguing under their breaths several steps ahead.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Canada hissed. "I thought you took care of Laveau a while ago!"

"Hey, sometimes the kids come back, chill. Besides, they're harmless to people like us… I'm pretty sure."

"You're pretty sure?!" Canada could not come up with a combination of curse words in any language to describe his consternation and settled on slapping his brother on the back of the head.

* * *

><p>They ended the night at an old restaurant with a live jazz band, sitting in a corner booth, watching the musicians coax out sweet sad notes from their instruments. The atmosphere was perfectly relaxing, and France wanted nothing more than to sit here, his head against America's shoulder, feeling his heartstrings thrum in response to the soulful piano and saxophone and double bass.<p>

Canada had stubbed out his cigarette a while ago, torn between not wanting to be associated with either country and needing their attention. He settled his dilemma by easing himself against France's side, and saying nothing when France kissed his hair and pulled him closer.

It was perhaps around three in the morning when France felt someone pinching his arm, and he tore his gaze away from the caramel-voiced singer onstage, looking up into their adoring, adorable twin faces.

"_T'es paré?_ There's something we wanna show you."

He let them pull him out of the seat and clasp both his hands.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a secret!" But it always was.

They went up several flights of stairs and reached the rooftop of the building that housed the restaurant. Fearing for their safety, even though he had lost custody of both hundreds of years ago, he told them to be careful, but they only laughed and raced each other on the edges of the rooftop, sure-footed and confident.

Only a short while later, they stopped and America pointed to the roof of another building across the street, silvered by the light of the full moon. France could not help but shiver, because looking at the scene before them, he finally understood the mystery of this night.

Gathered on the rooftop were about a dozen people, dressed in pale remnants of closets from throughout the past three centuries, playing music and dancing and conversing. He recognized Louis Laveau talking to a pair of twins, and another man towering above the rest, wearing a cowboy hat and striking up a dance tune on a fiddle with no strings. There was a young woman with strawberry-blonde corkscrew curls, playing the role of a gracious hostess in ragged Southern Belle finery, while off to the side, an African-American girl, her hair in two long plaits, refilled glasses with what he hoped was just red wine. The rest just as beautiful and striking, haunting in their familiarity. They all had the same determined fire in their eyes, the same rebellious spark he saw in America the day he decided, once and for all, to fight against England's rule.

"Are these… are they yours?" France asked, turning his attention back to the nation in question, who looked a little sheepish.

"You know what they say… Old states never die, they threaten to secede less often."

Canada nodded, knowing something of what his brother endured on this score, and France did not know whether to act concerned or sympathetic. But America seemed to be handling it rather well, and so he just shook his head and laughed softly.

The partygoers seemed to have noticed the observers by now, and they waved at the three, whooping and catcalling.

"The South will rise again!" shouted the southern belle.

"And again and again!" the cowboy added, raising a defiant fist. The others cheered again.

"Y'all are gonna have to die someday, you know!" America yelled back gleefully, while they all laughed and blew kisses.

"I like them," France said to Canada, who snorted.

"You know, by extension of metaphor, they're your grandkids. Your undead grandkids."

"Then I like them even more."

As they turned to leave, he heard them calling out to him - adieu, farewell, adios - but when he looked over his shoulder to return the goodbye, the party had already vanished into the night.

"_Bonsoir, mes amis."_

* * *

><p><em>[more notes]<em>

_T'es pare? - Are you ready?_  
><em>Louie Laveau, named after Marie Laveau, a voodoo queen of New Orleans<em>


End file.
